Learn Me Right
by HollyRose31523
Summary: There are teachers one likes and teachers one doesn't like. And then there is Quirrell. Quirrell is different - in appearance and behaviour. But after a while Fay Dunbar learns that there is actually method to his madness.


Disclaimer:  
I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters (even though I wish I did). I just like having them run around in my sometimes twisted little world.

* * *

 **Learn Me Right  
**  
Teachers never die. They live in your memory forever. They are there when you arrive and they are there when you leave. Like fixtures. Once in a while they teach you something – but not that often. And you never really know them any more than they know you. Still, for a while, you believe in them and if you are lucky maybe there is one who believes in you.  
Quirrell, however, isn't your average teacher. He is more like a mental case – and I mean that affectionately. He is always nervous, his hands are shaking, constantly, and his left eye is twitching that you find it hard to look at him. But in time you get used to his idiosyncrasies. And you start to like them. At least I do, even though to most people Quirrell is a regular laughing stock, probably because he is very much into eccentric headwear. But I really fancy that purple turban of his. It makes him stand out from the masses, makes him unique, and no matter how badly the others think about him, he is special to me. I respect him. And somehow I want him to respect me as well.  
Unfortunately, though, I don't really have to offer very much to be respected for. I am only an average student with mediocre grades, but I always do my best and Quirrell knows that. Or so I like to think. To please him, to get his acknowledgement, I have even put in some effort and brought myself from a 'P' to an 'A' – a respectable 'A'. Nothing is wrong with that – unless of course, if you happen to be Hermione Granger.  
"Darn!" she curses one Monday in mid-May, as she slumps down on the seat next to me in the Great Hall for dinner.  
"What's wrong?" I ask concerned.  
Naturally, Hermione gives me the look – that particular look only she can give you if you say something really stupid.  
"I'll tell you what's wrong," she growls, slamming the latest Defence Against the Dark Arts test on the table. "This!"  
Curiously I take a look at the paper and frown.  
"It's an 'O'!" I gasp in admiration. "You got an 'O' from Quirrell in Defence Against the Dark Arts!"  
"It's not an 'O'," Hermione corrects me. "It's an 'O minus'. An 'O minus'! I totally blew it."  
Now, with anyone else this might seem like bragging. But Hermione isn't a bragger. 'O's just come to her – like hives.  
"Bet you could just kick yourself," Ron Weasley, our classmate and curiously Hermione's friend, mocks.  
"Lay off, Ron," Hermione warns and making an appeasing gesture Ron backs away and continues discussing the latest Quidditch results with his best friend Harry Potter, who is sitting next to him.  
"I'm going tape this to the cover of my Defence Against the Dark Arts notebook as a warning", Hermione says darkly. "One little glitch and the whole academic year goes right down drain."  
With that she moves to put away the test, when I suddenly notice something – three little words written at the bottom of the paper.  
"Er… Hermione?" I ask, slowly, pointing at the short note. "What is this?"  
"Oh, never mind," Hermione says dismissively. "Just something Quirrell wrote."  
I look at her in surprise.  
"Good work, Miss Granger," I read out loud. "Quirrell wrote that?"  
"Yeah," Hermione replies, shrugging as if it didn't mean anything to her before she stuffs her test into her notebook.  
Thoughtfully, I avert my gaze and ponder for a moment.  
"And does he do that often?" I then ask, casually, helping myself to a Cheddar cheese sandwich.  
"Sometimes," Hermione answers. "Why? Doesn't he do that with you?"  
"Oh, yes, sure!" I lie. "Once in a while …"  
Hermione nods, turning her attention to the food on the table, and I am glad that she doesn't enquire any further about any notes written underneath tests - mainly because when I said "once in a while" I actually meant "never". But I am not jealous. Not exactly …

Still, the next day I show up early for Defence Against the Dark Arts class, thinking I should have a little chat with Quirrell – make some light conversation, chew the fat … After all, we are practically on a first-name basis.  
"Professor Quirrell?"  
He looks up from his paper work on his desk and once more I begin to wonder, why people mock him so.  
"M-M-Miss Dunbar?"  
Oh, right. His stutter, of course. I had almost forgotten about it.  
"C-C-Can I help y-y-you?"  
I bite my lips nervously. So this is going to be the big talk – which might turn out difficult if one considers his speech impediment.  
"Well," I begin hesitantly. "I was just wondering about how you thought I was doing."  
Quirrell looks at me expressionless.  
"I mean, generally", I add. "Overall."  
Quirrell still remains expressionless.  
"In Defence Against the Dark Arts."  
There! Clean and quick. One simple "Good work, Miss Dunbar" and I'd be on my way.  
But instead Quirrell looks down at his gradebook, which is lying on his desk.  
"L-L-Let's see, shall w-w-we?" he offers, sliding the gradebook towards himself.  
Then he opens the book and glances through the pages.  
"According t-t-to m-m-my r-r-records, y-y-you have b-b-been g-g-getting 'A's," he says, looking at me. "Is that c-c-correct?"  
I nod.  
"Yes," I admit, shyly.  
Quirrell looks back at the book, closes it, and tosses it toward the rest of his things, then he puts his hands together on the desk, and looks at me.  
"W-W-Was there anything else?" he asks after a moment of silence.  
I avert my gaze.  
"Well, no …" I answer. "Except …"  
I look at him and smile.  
"Would you say I'm doing well?" I ask. "Or … not so well?"  
"W-W-Well, how d-d-do y-y-you feel y-y-you're d-d-doing?"  
Oh, that's not fair! Answering a question with a question. What am I supposed to answer? How can I put it diplomatically?  
"I guess 'A's are much better than 'P's," I begin slowly. "Even though they are not as good as 'E's …"  
I hesitate, waiting for a reaction, but apart from the frequent eye twitch Quirrell's pale face stays expressionless.  
"Or 'O's," I add, quietly.  
Quirrell nods.  
"I see," he replies. "Thank y-y-you for sharing that w-w-with m-m-me."  
He smiles faintly and looks down, maybe because my classmate are now slowly walking into the classroom, muttering about a boring lesson that will await them as they assume their seats.  
"Anything else?" Quirrell asks and I shake my head, disappointedly.  
"No, professor," I mumble. "Nothing."  
With that I shuffle towards my desk and even though I am not looking back I can feel Quirrell's eyes following me.  
Still, that night, when I am studying in the Gryffindor common room I cannot get it out of my mind.  
"Hey, Fay", Lavender Brown greets me. "Are you still doing your homework?"  
"Not exactly," I reply. "I'm just going through the Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook. There will probably be another test tomorrow."  
"I bet," Lavender says, rolling her eyes. "That's all Quirrell actually can do, right? He is not really fit for teaching, so he is throwing tests at us. Strange guy, isn't he?"  
I shrug.  
"A little," I answer, turning my attention back to my books.  
"How have you been doing on you last test, then?" Lavender demands.  
"Fine, fine," I answer, evasively. "Another 'A'."  
"Good for you," Lavender praises. "There's nothing to be ashamed of there, right?"  
"Right."  
"I only got a 'P'," Lavender adds. "But who cares, huh?"  
With that she leaves me alone and all of a sudden, I realize that I do care and for some reason that respectable 'A' doesn't feel so ... respectable.

As I predicted there is indeed another test on Wednesday and thanks to my studying the night before I am doing more than just fine this time.  
"An 'E'," I gasp the following day as I look at my paper. "I actually got an 'E'."  
"Y-Y-Your final exams w-w-will b-b-be in t-t-two w-w-weeks from t-t-today," Quirrell announces.  
But no one is listening anymore. Not even me. I am way too thrilled about my good grade.  
"I suggest y-y-you b-b-begin studying for it n-n-now," Quirrell adds.  
He means well, I know that, but my classmates are walking out of the room, taking no notice of Quirrell's suggestion, let alone wishing him a good day.  
"T-T-Two w-w-weeks from t-t-today," Quirrell repeats, seriously.  
But really – who cares about two weeks from now? This is a red-letter day!  
My classmates have already left the room and happily I stand as well, looking at Quirrell with a huge grin on my face.  
"Professor?" I address him, approaching his desk.  
Quirrell lifts his head.  
"Y-Y-Yes?"  
Proudly, I hold up my test.  
"An 'E'!"  
Quirrell nods.  
"Yes," he says, quietly. "I know."  
"Well?" I demand, waiting for the praise, for the kudos, for the accolades …  
"Well," Quirrell replies. "I've been thinking about what you asked me, Miss Dunbar."  
"You have?"  
"I b-b-believe I understand", Quirrell adds. "And I think I c-c-c-an help."  
I blink confused.  
"I beg your pardon?"  
"There's n-n-not m-m-much t-t-time," Quirrell says. "W-W-We c-c-can start t-t-today."  
"Start what?"  
"Preparing for y-y-your final examination", Quirrell explains. "W-W-We have t-t-two w-w-weeks and a lot of g-g-ground to c-c-cover."  
"But I didn't say anything about an exam!"  
"W-W-We c-c-can w-w-work in the afternoon, after y-y-your c-c-classes," Quirrell goes on, ignoring my intervention. "W-W-We w-w-will m-m-meet here in this c-c-classroom. This is …"  
"Wait a minute!" I interrupt.  
What is the man talking about? All I want is a little applause for a work well done and he's giving me …  
"… an opportunity t-t-to do y-y-y-our b-b-best," Quirrell continues. "Isn't that why y-y-you c-c-came t-t-to me?"  
"I …"  
"Y-Y-You said an 'A' is b-b-better than a 'P', b-b-but n-n-not as g-g-good as an 'E'."  
Quirrell looks at me intently.  
"Or an 'O'," he then adds after a small pause for effect.  
"Well, sure," I admit. "But I didn't mean that …"  
"I think y-y-you c-c-can g-g-get that 'O', M-M-Miss Dunbar", Quirrell explains. "And I think y-y-you w-w-want t-t-to."  
"An 'O'?" I repeat, doubtfully. "In Defence Against the Dark Arts?"  
And suddenly it is clear – the man has completely lost his mind.  
I throw a laugh.  
"Look, professor …"  
"Let m-m-me know what y-y-you d-d-decide," Quirrell says, collecting his things before he turns to leave.  
I stare at him confused.  
"Professor Quirrell?" I call after him and he pauses.  
Then slowly he turns and looks at me.  
"M-M-Miss Dunbar?"  
"I'll never be an 'O' student," I add for consideration, but Quirrell only gives me a most mysterious glance.  
"That is up t-t-to y-y-you, M-M-Miss Dunbar."  
Well, like I said, the man is a mental case. I mean, it is almost laughable. Me? An 'O' student? Impossible!  
Inwardly I am still shaking my head as I enter the Great Hall for lunch.  
"Hello, Fay," Hermione greets me as I walk past her. "Want to sit down here?"  
With that she removes a heap of books from the seat next to her and it is then that I notice her Defence Against the Dark Arts test taped on her notebook.  
'Good work, Miss Granger.'  
The words in Quirrell's neat handwriting are staring me in my face and they are bugging me immensely. Can I really become an 'O' student? Certainly not! I am no Hermione Granger after all. I mean, one 'E' on one test, maybe, but let's not go overboard!  
Curiously, though, I find myself heading towards Quirrell's office right after lunch and taking a deep breath I knock at the door. To my surprise it instantly springs open, as if Quirrell has been expecting me and hesitantly I enter the room.  
Quirrell is standing in front of a huge terrarium, hand-feeding a large iguana and the tame animal is taking the tasty fruit slices Quirrell is offering him eagerly yet gently out of his hand. There is something peaceful about the scene and it makes me smile.  
Quirrell hasn't even noticed my presence yet, so I keep waiting silently in my spot, watching him and his pet, until Quirrell finally turns around. He looks at me and I look at him. We look at each other for a long time, then I sigh.  
"When do we start?" I ask.  
Quirrell doesn't answer. He just smiles. And so I step into the madness.

'Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.' That's what Shakespeare maintained and who in his right mind would doubt Shakespeare? I certainly wouldn't and apparently he was correct.  
Every day after my classes I meet with Quirrell to accomplish the improbable, if not the impossible. Not that I really believe I am going to ace that exam, still for some reason Quirrell seems sure I can do it. And if he believes it, well, maybe anything is possible.  
But it isn't all hard work. It is something more. It is the man himself. I like him. I am getting to know him, and he is getting to know me. We never talk about anything personal. We don't have to. Talking Defence Against the Dark Arts is enough.  
And I am actually beginning to consider the chance I might not get massacred on that final exam, when one Monday I find the door to the classroom locked. Frowning, I jiggle the handle again and slam my fist against the wood. Nothing happens, so I decide to try another door – the one to Quirrell's office.  
This time it doesn't open on its own, instead it takes almost five minutes, until Quirrell opens it from the inside and looks through the small crack.  
"Y-Y-Yes?"  
"Professor Quirrell, hello …" I greet him.  
"M-M-Miss Dunbar," he replies. "What are y-y-you doing here?"  
"Er… the classroom was locked."  
"Y-Y-Yes."  
"Well," I say, uncomfortably. "I thought you … I mean, we are supposed to …"  
"I'm afraid I c-c-can't m-m-make it t-t-today," Quirrell interrupts me. "I am b-b-busy."  
"Oh …" I reply, frowning in thought.  
Busy? Is he joking? The test is on Thursday and he is busy? Busy doing what? Feeding his reptile?  
Uneasily I glance around, then at Quirrell and suddenly I notice how pale he looks today – unhealthily pale and terribly thin. He doesn't seem to be in a good shape, probably because lately students have lost the little respect they had for him and have started playing pranks on him constantly, so maybe he just needs some rest.  
"Alright," I finally give in. "I guess I will see you tomorrow, then."  
Quirrell exhales deeply, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as if he had a sudden attack of migraine.  
"I'm afraid I w-w-won't be able t-t-to make it t-t-tomorrow either", he rasps, his voice shaken.  
"Oh …"  
It is all I can manage.  
"W-W-Well, good-bye, M-M-Miss Dunbar," Quirrell adds and with that he moves to close the door.  
It almost seems like he couldn't get rid of me quickly enough. What is wrong with him today? Has he robbed Gringotts or something and is busy hiding the loot now?  
No, Quirrell is not a common thief. He is a Hogwarts teacher and I am a Hogwarts student and as such I won't be fobbed off like that.  
"Wait!" I stop him, holding the door open.  
"What?" Quirrell asks, impatiently.  
"We still have five more topics to cover," I remind him.  
"I'm afraid y-y-you w-w-will have t-t-to prepare on y-y-your own, M-M-Miss Dunbar," Quirrell says apologetically. "Y-Y-You w-w-will only have t-t-to review …"  
"No!" I interrupt, impatiently. "I can't do that all on my own!"  
Quirrell sighs.  
"I suggest y-y-you t-t-try," he answers. "They w-w-will b-b-be on the examination."  
I bite my lips, disappointed.  
"Look, Professor Quirrell …" I begin, smiling slightly. "This whole thing was your idea."  
Quirrell doesn't even look at me, let alone answer to my accusation.  
"We had a deal," I add, seriously.  
Now Quirrell stares at me and like in our first conversation his face is expressionless. It is paler than ever and his eyes don't seem to focus.  
"Well, didn't we?" I ask, puzzled.  
Slowly, Quirrell starts closing the door.  
"I have t-t-to go n-n-now," he explains. "I'll b-b-be b-b-back for the exam on Thursday."  
"But …"  
"I'm sorry," he whispers and even though it sounds genuine, I feel betrayed.  
Here I am, practically begging for the man to help me and he is throwing me an anvil for a life-jacket. But there is nothing more to say, except for one thing.  
"Professor Quirrell!" I insist before he can close the door on me. "I thought you were my friend."  
Quirrell pauses and for a moment he just stares at me like before, his face still expressionless.  
"N-N-Not y-y-your friend, M-M-Miss Dunbar," he then corrects me, quietly. "Y-Y-Your t-t-teacher."  
And that is that – in spades: The big kiss-off.  
The door snaps shut and is locked from the inside and I am left with nothing – nothing but rage.

By Thursday, the day of the final exam, I have made up my mind. I know what I have to do. I am going to teach Quirrell a lesson for a change, yet I try not to look at him as I begin with my exam, because I'm afraid I might change my mind the last minute. But I don't. After all, I am well prepared.  
In a neat handwriting, so he can read it properly, I write phrases behind each task, phrases like "Let him go walk the plank!" and "Does anyone care?" and "So what?" and even "I don't give a rat's furry backside!". The last one is the best I think for it is a lovely smiley face and to round up the picture I give it a massive turban, making it an exact image of Quirrell himself.  
When the time is finally up, I wait until everyone one else has handed in their exam, pretending to be busy getting my things from under my desk, then I stand. The last student has just left, when I start walking forward, approaching the desk of my faux friend, the one who betrayed me, and hand him my paper directly.  
"M-M-Miss Dunbar," Quirrell says softly, then he glances at my exam.  
I must admit the expression on his face is priceless. Disappointment is written in his eyes when he looks up at me again and I figure that is exactly what I must have looked like when I was begging for his help three days ago.  
"Good work, huh?" I snarl and suddenly the disappointment in Quirrell's eyes turns into pure horror.  
But I couldn't care less. Defiantly, I turn around, not without shooting Quirrell one last evil grin, and walk away.  
"Fay …" I hear him call after me, but I am not willing to catch the bait.  
Two weeks ago Quirrell said it was up to me. So I have made my choice. I chose a 'T'. A perfectly respectable 'T'.  
Naturally, I am pretty proud of myself all afternoon and well into prime-time that evening. After that, well …  
I guess you can say it is one of the longer nights in my life. Motionless I lie on my bed, staring so many holes in my canapé that it soon resembles a loaf of Swiss cheese. I don't even stir, when I notice Hermione leaving the dormitory, probably to sneak out again. But for once I do not care. What does it matter if Gryffindor loses any more points? We are so far behind every one else that it hardly makes any difference. The House Cup is out of reach, lost forever and so is my relationship with Quirrell. I know I have to do something, anything, to come to terms with him, but a gut feeling tells me that it is too late for that. I had my shot and I blew it.

The next morning, after a sleepless night, I just feel bad. Terribly bad – for me and for Quirrell. After all, he probably had a good reason for doing what he did to me and ready to beg for his forgiveness I find myself in front of the staff room even before breakfast.  
Flitwick opens to my knocking at the door and he looks a little upset as he sees me.  
"Miss Dunbar," he squeaks. "I'm afraid this is very inconvenient. We have a staff meeting right now …"  
"I need to speak to Professor Quirrell," I interrupt him. "I swear it won't take long."  
Flitwick sighs.  
"Please," I add. "It's important. I really have to talk to Professor Quirrell."  
"I'm afraid he is not here," Flitwick answers, evasively.  
"Well, can I leave him a message?" I ask.  
Flitwick hesitates, then he looks over his shoulder and turns to me again.  
"Miss Dunbar …" he begins in a low voice, but before he can continue the door is yanked open, nearly knocking Flitwick off his feet, and Snape appears in the door frame.  
"What is it?" he demands menacingly. "What do you want, Miss Dunbar?"  
"I … er …" I stammer. "I am looking for Professor Quirrell."  
An evil grin is developing on Snape's thin lips.  
"Quirrell is gone", he announces, gleefully. "He has moved on."  
"What?" I gasp. "He doesn't live here anymore?"  
"He doesn't live anywhere anymore," Snape corrects.  
"I don't understand …"  
"He copped it," Snape explains. "He kicked the bucket, popped his clogs, keeled over, bit the dust, snuffed it, pegged out, scraped off … if you take my meaning."  
I swallow hard.  
"He … died?" I whisper in shock.  
"That's another way to put it," Snape confirms.  
"How?" I demand. "And why? Was he ill?"  
"Mentally, yes," Snape agrees. "There is no doubt about that."  
"Was it a brain tumour?" I take a wild guess.  
"Hmmm," Snape muses. "Funny that you mention it. You see, there was indeed something wrong with his head. I'll say, he had it coming."  
Somehow I don't like the way Snape is talking to me, but I assume there is more to matter than he is willing to tell me so in order to receive some more answers I decide to bear with him.  
"But he seemed quite alright yesterday, when we took the exams," I add for consideration. "How can something like this happen so suddenly?"  
"Well, it was about time, if you ask me," Snape replies, merciless. "Hogwarts is better off without the sorts of him. You will see, Miss Dunbar. No one will miss him. I surely won't."  
For a second I think about contradicting but then I decide that it's probably wiser not to, because Snape is not a person to be trifled with.  
"When …" I begin, slowly, hardly daring to ask. "When will be the funeral?"  
"Funeral?" Snape repeats, amused. "There will be no funeral. Professor Dumbledore will make a formal announcement later in the day and that's it."  
"And what about Professor Quirrell's classes?" I ask and for the first time Snape smiles – actually smiles.  
"I'll be taking over his classes," he says, proudly.  
Now I am speechless, totally stunned, and not just because of the smile.  
"Is that all, Miss Dunbar?" Snape demands, raising an eyebrow. "Or do you have any more questions?"  
I shake my head, numbly.  
"No," I lie. "No more questions."  
Truth is, my head is bursting with questions, but I already know that none of them will be answered, at least not by Snape, so without another word I leave, sunken in thoughts. Thoughts about my last words to Quirrell, how I disappointed him and did him wrong. And that there is nothing I can do to make amends.

When you are twelve, life is a series of events. One thing happens, then another. Things go on. Maybe it has to do with the resilience of the human spirit – the ability to survive.  
At dinner the same day Dumbledore makes an official announcement that Quirrell has passed away. He puts it more eloquently than Snape, still, no one is really sad about the school's loss. Except me.  
Anyway, by breakfast next morning, life is pretty much back to normal. For most of us. As for me, well, I will survive too. I have my health, my friends – and, of course, my own private hell.  
Sitting next to Hermione I cannot help but overhear her conversation with my classmates, about how Harry, Ron and herself had gone after the Philosopher's Stone, which Quirrell wanted to steal for You-Know-Who and how bravely Harry defended the precious stone. After a while I cannot listen to any of it anymore. Quietly I stand to leave the Great Hall and I have nearly reached the door, when suddenly a huge shadow is cast over me and instantly I pause.  
"Miss Dunbar."  
Slowly, I look up.  
"Professor Snape."  
He raises an astonished eyebrow.  
"You have finished your breakfast?"  
"Yes," I reply.  
"So soon?"  
"I wasn't particularly hungry," I explain.  
Snape just stares down at me.  
"Anything else?" I ask, boldly.  
Snape squints his eyes.  
"See me in my classroom in half an hour," he instructs me. "That's half past ten, sharp."  
I inhale deeply and roll my eyes.  
"Is there anything wrong with that, Miss Dunbar?"  
"No, sir," I reply. "Nothing."  
"Half past ten," Snape repeats. "Sharp."  
"Yes," I answer through gritted teeth. "I heard you the first time."  
"And bring something to write," Snape adds curtly.  
Oh, great! Giving him the lip just dealt me a last minute detention – one day before the End-of-Year Feast. This is just my luck!  
Grumpily, I return to my common room, where I find some of my classmates busy packing their things for their journey home and quietly to keep out of everyone's way, I sit on the comfortable sofa by the fireplace, staring at the flames, when suddenly a heap of paper lands right next to me and makes me flinch.  
"Here", Lavender says to me. "Will you do me a favour and burn these."  
She doesn't wait for a reply, but hurries away and slowly I take a closer look at what she has thrown on the sofa. It is yesterday's issue of the Daily Prophet and a massive headline flashing in bold letters draws my attention.  
"THE MAN WITH TWO FACES", it reads. "Hogwarts Professor turns to the Dark Side."  
There is a small photograph of Quirrell underneath the article, written by one Rita Skeeter, and in that picture he is standing in his classroom, next to the huge cauldron, holding his iguana in his arms. His face is pale and expressionless and his eyes are dull and unfocused. But try as I may, the longer I stare at the photograph the less I can bring myself to burn it.  
Carefully, I look around in the room and when I am sure that I am not observed, I tear out the picture, only the picture of Quirrell, and stuff it into my pocket. Then I throw the rest of the paper into the fire and I watch it turn into ashes.  
"What did Snape want from you back in the Great Hall?" Lavender's voice tears me out of my thoughts again and startled I look at her.  
Has she seen me taking Quirrell's photograph? And how long have I been sitting here, anyway?  
"What time is it?" I ask, alarmed.  
"Nearly half past ten," Lavender answers. "Why?"  
"I need to go," I mumble and hurry out of the common room and down into the dungeons.  
It is cold down here and I shiver, especially, when I walk past Quirrell's classroom. Suddenly I feel something jolt in my stomach. The bad conscience is creeping in on me and I hurry to walk past the wide open door, trying not to glimpse inside the room of my doom, when suddenly a sonorous voice makes me jump.  
"Where do you think you are going?"  
Startled I pause and step towards the door. Snape is standing right beside the huge cauldron, his arms folded in front of his chest. The light that is falling into the room through the windows gives him some sort of halo.  
"I told you to meet me in my classroom," Snape continues.  
"That's where I was heading to," I answer. "Your classroom."  
"This is my classroom."  
"No, this is Professor Quirrell's classroom."  
Snape smirks.  
"Not anymore."  
Of course, there are one or two things that I would like to reply, but I hold my tongue, figuring that it would do me better if I don't wish to spoil my Saturday afternoon, too.  
"Come in," Snape commands me. "Close the door behind you and sit down."  
I sigh. This is about the last place on earth I want to be at that moment and Snape is the last person I want to be with at the moment, but I don't have a choice, so I obey, reluctantly.  
"Something odd has occurred," Snape says as I slip into my usual seat. "Perhaps you can shed some light on it."  
With that he holds up an envelope and somehow, as soon as I saw it, I knew what he was talking about.  
"Final examinations," he explains. "All of them."  
He looks at me intently.  
"All of them …" he repeats. "Except yours."  
I blink confused.  
"Apparently, Quirrell graded these exams the evening of his unfortunate and untimely death," Snape sneers. "But it seems yours was misplaced."  
"Oh …"  
It is all I can manage.  
"The question now is, what do we do about it?" Snape continues. "This is the final exam and you need a grade."  
He stares at me.  
"Do you have any suggestions?"  
I shake my head.  
"No, sir."  
"Well," Snape says, slowly. "Quirrell did."  
With that he holds up a blank test, with my name on it, written in Quirrell's neat handwriting. A second chance. Quirrell has granted me a second chance, even though I haven't deserved it. And suddenly I feel sick. So sick that I want to cry. But I don't. Not in front of Snape, anyway.  
"Fifty minutes, Miss Dunbar," Snape says as he puts down the paper on the desk in front of me. "You may begin."  
I bite my lips.  
"I forgot to bring a quill," I admit.  
"Yes, I thought you might," Snape replies, conjuring a quill out of thin air. "Take this. His previous owner surely won't mind."  
With that he holds a large eagle feather with a bronze tip in front of me and my heart is beating fast I take it.  
"Was this …?"  
"Yes," Snape cuts me off. "It was Quirrell's. But don't you worry. He certainly won't need it anymore."  
"Where did you get it from?" I ask, suspiciously. "Have you been going through his stuff?"  
Snape raises his eyebrow.  
"What exactly are you suggesting, Miss Dunbar?" he demands in a low voice. "That I am keen on his gadgets and gizmos? That I intend to keep all these silly little trinkets?"  
"No," I answer. "But I am wondering what is going to happen to his personal belongings."  
"His personal belongings are no concern of yours," Snape snaps. "Professor Dumbledore and I will take care of them all."  
"Even his iguana?"  
Snape throws a laugh.  
"Ah, yes, that ridiculous reptile," he says, dismissively. "Well, I suppose he can make himself useful in the kitchen with the End-of-Year Feast coming up tomorrow."  
Snape grins evilly.  
"I hear iguanas taste just like …"  
"No!" I exclaim, disgusted at the mere thought. "You will not turn that iguana into food! I would rather take it in myself if nobody else does!"  
"That is neither for you nor for me to decide," Snape replies. "You will have to speak to Professor Dumbledore about it."  
"So I will!"  
"Yes, of course, Miss Dunbar, but first, you are going to take this exam," Snape reminds me, carelessly dropping Quirrell's precious quill on my desk. "Good luck with that."  
Angrily, I glare at Snape, pressing my lips together tightly to keep myself from screaming at the top of my lungs. What a bully he is! How dare he insult Quirrell's memory by treating his things like that? I want to jump at Snape, claw his black eyes out, wring his neck and tell him that he isn't even fit to shine Quirrell's shoes, but naturally my good manners get the better of me.  
"Did you want to say anything?" Snape asks, looking at me provocatively, and reluctantly I shake my head.  
"No, sir," I answer through grit teeth. "Nothing."  
"Then proceed with your work."  
I exhale deeply, then I begin and as I am taking that test, I think about a lot of things. About how I knew Quirrell, and yet, I didn't. About how he treated me like a responsible adult and how I had acted like a rebellious child. About how I let him down – and now I wouldn't.  
The thing is, even though I can almost feel him in the room, especially since I am using his quill, I know I don't need him for the answers – or the praise. I am on my own now and about forty five minutes later, as I hand in the exam to Snape, I cannot help but smile.  
"Anything funny, Miss Dunbar?" Snape asks, frowning.  
"No, sir," I reply. "Nothing."  
"Well, let's see if you are still smiling after I have graded your exam."  
"You don't have to," I tell him. "It's an 'O'."  
"Really?" Snape snorts. "Maybe it would have been with Quirrell, a good-for-nothing, pathetic excuse for a wizard. But with me …"  
"Even with you!" I interrupt. "It's going to be an 'O'. I know it."  
And suddenly I think that Snape knows too – and that there is nothing he could say about Quirrell that would taint him in my eyes, because no matter what else Quirrell did in his life, of which I knew so little, he certainly taught me a lesson. He made me find my way.  
Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room.  
"Miss Dunbar."  
I hesitate as I hear the calm familiar voice call and awkwardly I glance over my shoulder. But it isn't Snape I see standing next to the huge cauldron. It is Quirrell. He is looking at me and his face isn't expressionless anymore. On the contrary. He is smiling and his eyes are not filled with disappointment, but with some sort of pride.  
Carefully I reach into my pocket and as I feel the small piece of paper between my fingers I smile back.  
"Good work, Professor Quirrell," I whisper. "Good work."


End file.
